


hoping you might change your mind

by carrionkid



Series: Devil In The Details-Verse [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Late Night Conversations, POV Alternating, Pre-Canon, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: matt and bullseye met each other, once. before they were enemies. no, the first time they met, they were two teenagers riding the subways in the early morning hours of early fall, 1975. it's not a particularly life-changing or memorable night, but it is a night.aka: everything is connected, but not like, in an IMPORTANT way.title comes from 'the metro' by berlin.





	hoping you might change your mind

Matt knows the way to the subway.

 

That’s a fact, and an easy one at that.

 

But there’s harder facts, too.

 

Like this one: the way to the subway is one of the few places where the line between _vita ante acta_ and _vita pro tempore_ is almost nonexistent.

 

He likes lines, most of the time. A clear-cut way to distinguish, to categorize. Right/wrong, good/bad, safe/dangerous, important/trivial. He likes a neat division, if/then hypotheticals, the formula that life follows without fail.

 

At night, things are easier to handle.

 

He’s technically not supposed to be out at night; he never was supposed to be out much at all. It’s word of law in his home: Matthew M. Murdock shalt not go anywhere unless he hath completed his studies. Followed by the law of: one’s studies are never complete as knowledge is limitless and priceless.

 

But he can find a way around this one. _Beati qui ambulant lege domini._ Wrath is a cardinal sin and sneaking out at night is wrong, but ultimately less of a net sin against him than punching a hole in the wall or trying to break a kid’s nose. Again. But he’s already squared that one away, or he hopes he has because he spent that whole night praying until he lost his voice and even after that. And he didn’t even try to sneak out for the whole day he was suspended.

 

He has it down to a science now. His father gets back from ‘work’ at one every morning like clockwork. And then he gets drunk, even though he’s not supposed to be drinking. Matt hasn’t brought _that_ up more than once, though. And then Matt just has to listen until he knows that his father isn’t going to wake up when he sneaks out.

 

He has a prayer, too. One that doesn’t have words, one that’s just him standing with a hand on the doorknob, counting twenty-one breaths from his father on the couch. Three sets of seven to make sure it hasn’t gone too far this time and his father won’t wake up.

 

It’s not running away. Intent means nothing, the only important thing is action. And that’s why he never packs a bag. Because if he packs a bag, then he’ll bring the bag along. And if he brings the bag along, then he might not come home. Some nights, he can’t even let himself think about it like it’s running away.

 

Tonight’s not one of those nights. Tonight is one of those nights when he weighs pros and cons until the scales tip and he makes his way home before school. There aren’t many reasons to stay that don’t cycle back to guilt, but they’re still heavy enough to drag him down like a cinder block chained to his feet.

 

He doesn’t like the inside of the subway station all that much. Even when he’s the only one in there, the sounds ricochet off the walls until it sounds like it’s as full as it is during the day. So he stands very, very still and waits for the first train that comes. It doesn’t matter which line he gets on because it’ll always come back to his station.

 

Matt’s lucky tonight. He doesn’t have to wait long at all.

 

The station fills with wind as the train pulls in and when the doors open, no one comes out. Which is good; it means it’s less likely anyone will ask him what he’s doing here. He’s very good at lying now, that’s not being boastful because it’s true, but he doesn’t like doing it. As it is, he’s already lost count of how many lies he’s told and he doesn’t like the fact that he doesn’t have a concrete number to keep in his mind.

 

There’s someone else in the car he ends up getting in.

 

It’s a small blessing that whoever it is doesn’t say anything to him when he takes a seat. He actually does have an answer to the burning question, the one most people ask: _why are you here?_ He’s here because the roar of the train is the closest to silence he can get. Because it helps him think. Because it’s what he imagines being rocked to sleep is like.

 

It’s not perfect tonight because the person on the other side of the car keeps bouncing their leg, sole of the shoe hitting the floor in time with the ambient sound of the subway running along the tracks. It’s consistent, which is a small mercy. He hasn’t hurt anyone in almost a year, unless trying to bite back wrath but only biting through his tongue counts. He doesn’t want to break his streak; it’d still be broken even if no one else saw him.

 

There’s something else, too. The repetitive click of bone, almost buried under all the other staticy sound. He’s heard it in his father’s movements, something broken that never went back together right.

 

“You don’t ride this train,” the stranger speaks up.

 

He smokes, Matt knows that, probably a lot. But somewhere under the part that almost sounds like a throat hoarse from screaming is something childish. It feels like a knife, not just from the raspy, unused sound to his speech, but because Matt’s worked so hard at training himself out of that other part.

 

“I know _everyone_ who rides the trains at night. You’re not supposed to be here.”

 

“Well, I _am_ here,” he’s getting annoyed at the constant click; it doesn’t synchronize with anything else in the space.

 

“I know you’re here, dumbass. I just don’t _like_ it.”

 

Click, tap tap, click, tap, click click, tap tap tap, click, tap.

 

Matt ends up frowning when he realizes the only way to deal with this is to either get in a fight or keep engaging and hoping that talking drowns out the sound of bone clicking together.

 

“Do I know you?”

 

“Nah,” the stranger definitely sounds like he’s Matt’s age.

 

“But we go to school together, right?”

 

The stranger laughs; there’s something piercing and clear about it, up until it turns into a cough. The incessant clicking stops, but he keeps tapping his feet.

 

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Matt chides; it’s the voice he used to reserve for telling his father to stop drinking and he’s a bit rusty with it, but it works.

 

“Who the fuck told you that I smoke?”

 

“It’s not that hard to figure out. And you didn’t answer my question.”

 

And the clicking starts back up, “I don’t _go_ to school.”

 

Matt cocks his head to the side, “Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t _have_ to,” the stranger groans, “And I already know everythin’ I need to know.”

 

“Yeah?” Matt taunts, “Like what?”

 

“Lotsa things. What’s real and what’s fake, how to clean a gun, where it’s alright to sleep, how to make sure someone isn’t fuckin’ you over.”

 

He's not stupid, or naive. He knows what the stranger is talking about, at least on a general level. The stranger is a criminal, like the kids at school who steal from the bodega nearby. They always sound proud of it, but the stranger's tone is harder to place.

 

“You have a gun?” Matt thinks he'd know if the stranger had it pointed at him, like he'd feel something to warn him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Click, tap tap, click.

 

“Where'd you get it?”

 

“It's my dad's,” he sounds annoyed, or maybe uncomfortable.

 

Matt can't help wringing his hands, “Does he know you have it?”

 

“What are you? A fucking cop?”

 

He doesn't know why that bothers him as much as it does, “No! I just… My father won't let me do _anything!_ It's always ‘ _you have to be better than me, Matthew, so I won't let you even think about fighting.’_ ”

 

“Yeah?” The stranger laughs, but Matt can't find a joke in it, “What he doesn't know can't hurt him. Bet he doesn't know you're doing this.”

 

The city's a big place, even when it feels like a cage, and he knows he'll never see this kid again. So he wrings his hands and gets ready to confess something he's never told anyone, not even his priest.

 

“The first time I rode the trains all night was when he found out I got in a fight at school. I thought he'd be _proud_ because I _won,”_ Matt digs his nails into his palm, “But he just hit me. Hard enough that I hit the floor. So I left, and then I came back because I had school in the morning and I already had a black eye anyway.”

 

The clicking stops.

 

“Is… Is that why you have the glasses?” The childishness is back in the stranger's voice.

 

“Nope. It was a chemical spill.”

 

“Good one,” the stranger laughs, sharp as a knife and hollow, “I used to tell people the burns were from aliens.”

 

It's another piece in the picture of the stranger: he has burns, somewhere that people can see them. And Matt can read between the lines enough to know that they're probably from his dad. It's not a picture he likes very much at all.

 

* * *

 

The kid is nosier than anyone else he's met on the trains so far and he'd think this kid was stupid if it wasn't for the fact that he never pushes a line of questioning too far. He knows what he doesn't want to hear. He knows what Bullseye doesn't want to tell him.

 

But it's gone farther than he thought it would. Hasn't told anyone about the gun in his bag yet, not unless he's doing it to get someone to leave him alone. Usually scares people away right quick. But, maybe that's what he was doing when he told the kid about it.

 

The kid's sitting in the seat right across from him, like a reflection. It's fitting, too, because it sounds like they're the same. It looks like they’re the same, too. Same tenseness, same posture. Maybe even the same age, but he’s not always sure how old he is.

 

The kid on the other side of the train keeps wringing his hands and it almost matches up with the game of cat's cradle Bullseye’s been playing to pass the time. Keeps his hands busy, which keeps everyone happy.

 

It’s a perfect loop, no matter what he does to it, no matter how he twists it around his fingers, no matter how many figures he makes. He likes it more than solitaire, can’t play that on the train. Not without the cards ending up everywhere for some reason or another. So that waits until he’s somewhere stationary, dry, and quiet.

 

“What’s your stop?”

 

“Don’t have one,” he pulls the string off his fingers and starts over, knows what route he wants to take already.

 

“You _have_ to have a stop,” the kid sounds more concerned than he oughta, “You can’t live on a train.”

 

“I _don’t_ live on a train,” he scoffs.

 

“Yeah, then where _do_ you live?”

 

He lives lots of places. Even more now that he’s got a job. One that he’s _good_ at. So good that people tell him as much, and that’s almost as nice as getting paid.

 

“None o’ your fuckin’ business.”

 

But he’s gotta admit, the kid is helping. He can’t fall asleep, not here, and after a few hours, the sound of the subway starts getting to him and cat’s cradle stops keeping him alert and focused.

 

In his bag, there are four decks of cards, three necklaces and a diamond ring, and another set of clothes, wrapped around his money and dad’s gun. He couldn’t stand to lose any of it, so he stays awake until he can drop off whatever he’s scored and then he finds somewhere to hole up.

 

“So you're homeless.”

 

The kid's really starting to get on his nerves. Being alone isn't great, but then he doesn't have to put up with shit like this. Usually only gets it from adults and he thought he'd appreciate the change of pace but it's really just grating.

 

“Why do you care so fuckin' much?” He spits.

 

He keeps working at the string wrapped around his fingers. Might get pissed off if he looks at the kid outright.

 

“One day, I'll make sure everyone's safe and no one hurts anyone,” the kid says it like he's admitting something, like he really believes it.

 

Maybe they aren't the same after all. That's too tangled, not a path at all. The kid acts so self assured and grown up; doesn't seem to realize how stupid that sounds.

 

“Good for you. Go run for fuckin’ mayor.”

 

“You weren't being this rude _earlier.”_

 

Bullseye catches sight of the kid frowning, still wringing his hands, out of the corner of his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he growls, “Cos you weren't askin’ questions I don't wanna answer _earlier._ ”

 

The kid cocks his head to the side, just a bit, “You don't _have_ to answer them. You just keep doing it anyway.”

 

It makes him seethe knowing that the kid is right. There's no reason why he should be answering all these questions, no reason why he should've told the stupid kid about the gun and about riding the trains when he doesn't have anywhere to sleep. He forgot how important it is to make sure _nobody_ asks questions.

 

And then the kid does something completely out of left field; he drops his voice all low and says, “Do you want me to pray for you?”

 

He knows what that is and what it means, he's not _stupid_ , but the only time he's been to a church is when it's offering food.

 

“I'm going to do it anyway. Or I won't be able to sleep.”

 

That's another surprise. The way the kid says it doesn't sound like the usual lie of ‘I couldn't possibly sleep at night knowing that this is going on’.

 

“Alright,” he says, because he doesn't know what else he _can_ say.

 

Bullseye doesn't think the kid would pray for him if he knew that he's killed someone. No one knows that, and he'd like to keep it that way.

 

“What's your name?”

 

He tenses up; doesn't like giving it out when he doesn't have to.

 

“I need it so I can pray for you, so it won't get lost or mixed up.”

 

“Ben.”

 

It's an easy lie, one that slides right off his tongue. The one he uses so nobody finds out that he doesn't know what it's supposed to be. No one really bothers to listen when he tells them what it _really_ is, and this way, maybe whoever's listening to the kid won't know that he's killed someone. He doesn't think it'll help much anyway.

 

“Okay, Ben. I'm Matt.”

 

“I didn't _ask_ ,” he says, pulls the strings off his hands and starts over.

 

“Well that's how this works. You introduce yourself and then I do the same.”

 

“Okay, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “ _Matt.”_

 

“You're the one who started talking to me in the first place,” the kid's voice strains and he actually looks annoyed.

 

Bullseye's good at that, being annoying; keeps people away, makes people underestimate him.

 

“Yeah, and now I'm done talking to you.”

 

They pass a few more stops, none of them important, and he feels like the kid's trying to see when he gets off. It's gonna be a long night if he's waiting for that, though. At least he's not interrogating Bullseye anymore. Lets him be, lets him keep playing his game in peace.

 

Doesn't last for long, though, like the kid can't stand quiet.

 

“What's the clicking? I know it's coming from _you._ And it's been going on _all night._ ”

 

Most people don't notice it, which really drives him up the wall, but he's already said so much that not saying anything would be out of place.

 

“It's my wrist.”

 

“So I was right,” the kid smiles, self assured and he hates it because he's usually the one a few steps ahead, “Who broke your wrist?”

 

He'd probably try to knock the kid's teeth out if he could move at all. There's the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat and his heart's damn near beating out of his chest.

 

“Why d'you keep askin’ questions you already know the answer to?”

 

“I didn't know the answer. Not until you told me,” the kid sounds smug, looks the part too but it's hard to tell behind the glasses.

 

“Fuck you. I _hate_ you.”

 

“I ride the trains whenever I'm thinking about running away. And I think you're thinking about something, too. That's why you have the gun, and I think that's why you told me about it.”

 

Bullseye really doesn't care, but as long as the kid's talking and not asking questions, he doesn't have to worry about trying to answer. It's weird, though, because the kid doesn't sound like he's telling him off.

 

“I haven't run away yet,” the kid hangs his head, just a little bit, “And I won't run away, as long as you don't do whatever you're thinking about doing.”

 

Whatever the kid's got in mind, it's probably already too late for that. He's done a lot of things this kid probably wouldn't be too happy about. He frowns, doesn’t have an answer for the kid. And for once, the kid doesn’t push it.

 

Things are quiet for a while, just the sound of the train. And then the overhead announces the next stop. Same one the kid got on at, which makes it one full loop since they met.

 

“That's me,” the kid almost sounds sad to go.

 

And he'd tell the kid that he doesn't have to go home, that it’s too late, he’s already used the gun, already got blood on his hands. But he doesn't like the kid that much and promises are easier to break, so he keeps his mouth shut and keeps playing cat’s cradle.

 

The train comes to a stop a few seconds later and the kid hovers by the doors, like he's thinking about asking Bullseye to come with him. Looks like they're the same after all, but it's more annoying than comforting.

 

Neither of them say goodbye, or goodnight, or even 'I'll see you around’. It's just wishful thinking, anyway.


End file.
